Tantor and Slowmara
by Sliver of Profundity
Summary: A very short one shot that I wrote in response to Team Four Star's Soul Silver nuzlocke about Tantor and the monster he keeps in his pocket: Slowmara.


Out of the six pokeballs clipped to his belt, Tantor hesitated to touch only this one. Unlike the others which were warm to the touch, it radiated an unearthly cold and was covered in a light sheen of condensation. Those water droplets felt unwholesome on his skin, and his hands hadn't felt entirely clean ever since the first time he had touched it, no matter how vigorously he washed them.

"Hey, what's the hold up, bro?" called his opponent. "If ya wanna forfeit, that's fine. My Rattata's in the top percentage, ya know."

Tantor growled wordlessly. Couldn't this idiot see that he just needed a minute?

"Tantor," he said through clenched teeth.

"What was that, bro?" the trainer asked, cocking his head toward him.

"TANTOR!" Tantor screamed angrily, his eyes wild.

The trainer backed away, hands held up defensively. His Rattata shied back with him, sheltering between his feet.

"S-sure, bro. W-whatever you say," said the trainer, his voice a few octaves higher than usual.

Tantor's fingers hovered just millimeters over the surface of the pokeball, that horrible chill sinking into his flesh and bone. Bracing his mind and gritting his teeth, he seized the ball, fighting off a shudder of revulsion as he clicked the button to expand it. He whipped back his arm and threw the ball as if he were trying to cast it from his possession, and he dearly wished that he could.

"T-TANTOR!" he cried in a broken voice, and the ball split open.

Tantor's head buzzed like it had been packed with a swarm of Beedrills, and his eyes refused to focus. What coalesced from that energy had the general shape of a Slowpoke, but he could not shake the impression that it somehow had lank, wet, black hair. The harder he tried to focus on it, the less clear it became, and in his shattered vision he began to see the mouth of that horrible well where he had caught… whatever it was. Wait… Had he actually caught it? Or had it caught him… Darkness, water dripping, the smell of decay, claws on stone, a blood-red eye in the shadows, that terrible smile, and, and... The tighter he tried to grasp at that memory the hazier his mind grew, and he began to taste blood.

All at once, it was over. Tantor found himself lying on his back in the grass, staring into the sky.

Every joint in his body popped and cracked painfully as he struggled to sit upright, but he managed, and then he saw his opponent. The trainer was curled up into the fetal position with his head between his knees and his hands pressed tightly over his ears, rocking back and forth in jerky motions. Tantor could just barely hear him sobbing quietly, whispering "no, no, no," over and over. Of the Rattata, there was no sign. It was probably better that way.

Tantor checked himself over. His body ached all over, and he had a few drops of blood staining his shirt, but that wasn't unusual, and checking his belt, he found that hated pokeball back in its original spot, though he had no memory of calling back its occupant. He was increasingly certain that he didn't need to; that it would always return to him no matter what happened.

He stood and shouldered his bag, confident that walking would work the last few kinks out of his joints. Passing the sobbing trainer, Tantor hesitated, but after a moment he shook his head and kept going. Not before relieving the poor bastard of his wallet, though. Rules were rules.

As he walked, an idea began to take shape. Whatever was in that ball, whatever had found him in that well, it was undoubtedly evil. However, it had also never failed to win a fight for him. And though its methods were unorthodox, they got the job done, and that was Tantor's guiding star. Even if he could not control it, he seemed to be able to point it…

In his mind's eye he began to see the possibilities: trainers cut down left and right; the Elite Four fallen at his feet; he saw the Pokemon Champion, Lakigr himself, cast down from his throne.

He brushed his fingers absently across the surface of that pokeball. Why had he ever thought it was disgusting? The chill and fetid wetness were so very comforting.

With a smile growing on his face and corruption taking root in his heart, Tantor looked off into the distance toward the Indigo Plateau, to his destiny, and he whispered "Tantor".


End file.
